


How Love Is Still Unrooting You

by blue_wonderer



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Casual Sex, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Roughness, Sorry?, not-so casual sex, some domesticity, touch-starved boys, very little actual sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 02:25:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_wonderer/pseuds/blue_wonderer
Summary: Rooftop sex: it's kinda their thing, until it's not. Rough turns unexpectedly soft and Matt... can't deal.





	1. Chapter One

It's the sleet that drives them inside. 

It’s been weeks since they last encountered each other, even longer since they last—since they last did whatever it was they do between their fights, team-ups, and individual fuck-ups. At least, Matt thinks it’s been weeks. He's not… sure. The days and nights— Time, it— It sort of slouches together and drops out of his orbit in a way it hasn't since—since—

_”Dad, I can't see! I can't **see**!”_

—Yeah. Since right after that. 

It is bitter cold but the blood on his mouth is warm, Frank's blood on his knuckles burns even hotter, zings through him like—

The cold makes the electric current of Frank’s teeth against his skin brighter and sharper. Frank is composed of teeth, pulling frenziedly on Matt’s lips, tearing along the line of his jaw, reckless of bruises and cuts. He bites down, harsher and harsher until Matt's hips jerk up and writhe against empty air because Frank always chooses that moment to step back and _watch_. He watches as Matt humps against the ghost of Frank’s body heat, waiting for that _one second_ where Matt helplessly throws his head back, chasing teeth, exposing the column of his throat to Frank like some kind of— 

An onslaught of sleet and wind hurtles them inside. They are close to Matt’s apartment and there’s no way Matt’s going to let this go, no way he’s going to _deny_ himself _again_. Not now. He’s tired of falling out of orbit, motion sick from the buoyancy of an existence void of attachments (lately he’s starting to wonder how he came to _choose_ this emptiness, and hesitancy is unacceptable). 

Their hands are numb and trembling by the time they crash inside, turning nimble fingers into claws as they tear at each other, ripping away the armor and the layers. Being indoors with each other like _this_ is new. It’s strangely muted compared to…before. Closed in. Frank licks into Matt, shoving groping hands away so he can tug at the seams of Matt’s armor and then there’s teeth pressing down against his exposed collarbone and—

_oh_

—that’s new, too. 

They fight all the way through the apartment, like they've fought across roof tops the past few months, tripping and punching each other into dark corners or against massive and loud HVAC units. Biting and shoving with gladiatorial fervor until it turns into a delirium of arousal. Elbowing and kneeing the other until one of them—the _winner_ —first shoves a hand down the other’s pants, consuming the other, _taking_ as they pleased. 

Now, Frank bites down on the juncture of Matt’s neck to hold him still while he mauls at the body armor. Matt groans, thrusts deeply against Frank's hip, _takes_ what he wants against the other, and then elbows Frank when the teeth get too hard. Frank reels back half a step, never as off balance as Matt wants him, always fucking _immovable_ , but Matt still manages to get the Kevlar off. He digs nails and fingertips into the thin material of Frank’s t-shirt and the ripping fabric sounds loudly above their heavy breaths. 

"Fucking hell, Red," is all the warning he gets before an arm wraps around his waist and a shoulder slams into his solar plexus, punching a feral laugh out of Matt as they crash to the bedroom floor. Frank straddles him and wrestles Matt’s top off, grinding down on Matt's belly, _taking_ what he wants. Matt gets Frank's heavy boots wrestled off before he manages the belt and the three guns in one jerk. Frank grinds down on him hard and Matt throws back his head, lets out a sharp breath. Frank stills, _watching_ , and Matt takes advantage, flipping them in a slinking motion that has Frank scrabbling. 

Matt drags blunt nails fast and hard down Frank's chest, grins with blood in his teeth, palms himself through the armor, rocks down lightly to tease the barest pressure against the heat and hardness of Frank—

There's a flurry, cursing, a blow to his upper ribs, a startling slap against his thigh, the _goddamned teeth_ — 

And then they're standing again, both naked and the skin—the skin is new, too. Usually it's just—it's just hands and mouths but the sleet is driving down outside and even _they're_ not crazy enough to do…whatever it is they’re doing outside in those elements. But now they're inside and they're naked and Frank's no longer composed of teeth and bullets. Now Frank’s just this… _human thing_ beneath the Kevlar and the guns—a construct of heat held up by marrow and wrapped in skin and bruises. 

Matt's not even sure who won this time, who stripped the other first, who got their hands on the other first because Matt's gripping Frank’s length hard and challenging but Frank's already jerking him off in loose movements, maddeningly benign even when he's pulling Matt's hair so hard Matt gasps, mouth falling open just so he can swallow whatever Frank gives him.

"Red," Frank scrapes teeth just below Matt’s ear and Matt sucks in his own lip, which does little to stifle the needy cry. "Gonna fuck you." 

His whole body clenches at the thought, concupiscence dropping low and aching in his belly, thrumming between his legs. He feels the tide of desire more acutely than he’s felt _anything_ in the last few months. But Matt can’t stand to lose, not so easily. So he pushes Frank's head away, follows up with his own tongue against the swell of Frank's throat even as he boldly reaches around and clutches the flesh of Frank's ass, nails digging in for purchase, suddenly desperate to mark up this moment. “Yeah? You sure about that?" 

He fights belatedly when Frank hooks his heel around Matt's ankle, pulls him off balance long enough to throw him on the bed. Matt free falls, another half-crazed laugh ripping out. Frank rides him down, unwilling to give him room to retaliate. 

The uncontrolled weight nearly crushes him, distracts him while he catches his breath. Frank’s thumb rubs firmly against his chest, fingers pinching lightly and then harder until Matt’s skin is red and swollen and Matt begins to wonder if he’s going to shake completely apart. 

And then it all… changes. The smell, the sounds, the feel of the room—the feel of Frank—is suddenly and inexplicably transformed. 

Teeth, nails, and knuckles recede and dry lips and a warm, teasing tongue ebb in, lavishing attention on Matt’s collarbone and abused nipples with singular _reverence_. Frank's hand is back around his dick and it’s—it's gentle and firm and—and— _giving_. Matt's no longer even touching him and yet Frank’s administrations only become… _softer_ , like he forgot about _taking_ and _winning_.

And then those lips, those lips are on his. No teeth. No tongue. Sweet. _Soft._ A tentative touch and—

—It's like _de ja vu_ , like a phantom pain of lost sight, and he's not even thinking of her, hasn't thought of her in _weeks and weeks_ (lie), but suddenly all he smells is Karen's perfume and all he feels is the first touch of her soft, tentative, questioning lips and—

"What?" Matt breathes out shakily, hands rising to rest against Frank's sides, fingers twitching, trying to read a language he suddenly doesn't understand. 

Frank rumbles nonsense, hands and mouth teasing and sucking at Matt’s chest. He grips onto Frank’s sides, holds on while a rush takes him out to sea, tries to fortify himself while Frank’s gentleness unravels him. Frank speaks with an unexpected awe as he lays his body lightly on Matt’s, skin-to-skin wherever he can touch, an offering of himself as a barrier between Matt and the world. 

"So good, Red." 

_”So good for me, Matthew," Elektra purrs as she drapes over him, laying skin-to-skin, parting her thighs so he can smell the wetness of her, pressing her breasts against him so he can get lost in the softness of her, imprints her lips against his mouth so he reads the reluctant tenderness in her smile. She hooks an ankle around his calf, anchoring them down, tethering him to her as she becomes his world and what is beyond her is shut out._

Matt swallows, chest tightening painfully. 

"What?” He chokes out again. “Frank..." 

Frank shushes him, lips at Matt's mouth, one hand splayed across his side as if holding something desperately fragile. Matt is abruptly engulfed in unfurling anger and something _else_ , something uglier and smaller and so, so _weak_. 

“I got you, Red,” Frank whispers, promises in a soft cadence that Matt’s never _heard_ from him before and—

And Matt _explodes_ into motion, his world a looming, red flame. He kicks out, his heel colliding with a shin, kicking a stream of curses out of the body above him. Frank fights for a few moments, holds Matt down until a knee to his side loosens his grasp. Matt sneers, reaching and gripping Frank’s cock punitively while biting painfully at his shoulder, hurting every corner of Frank he can reach. “Thought you were going to fuck me—” 

“Christ,” Frank hisses, shaking in Matt’s grasp, rolling hips further into his hand, caught between pain and pleasure. Matt can’t see his face, can’t see anyone’s _goddamned face_ in a world on fire. But Frank’s hands are still soft, still tender, and he’s stroking Matt’s hip and belly now, calming, _giving_. “Christ, Red, just—”

“What the fuck were you doing, Frank?” Matt rasps, twisting to dislodge his hand. Frank’s forehead falls into his neck, skin burning but the hair that brushes against Matt’s ear is still icy from the sleet and wind outside. Matt jerks him harder, unforgiving, trying to force the other man back on track. “Got my armor off and got me in some goddamned silk sheets and—what? What was that sentimental bullshit? _Did you forget who you were fucking?_ ” 

One of Frank’s hands slams around his throat and squeezes, shutting off his air and voice. 

“Watch your mouth,” Frank warns, biting down, and Matt would crow around his bloody smile if he had the air. The hunger is back, made bigger and deeper by the wrath that burned bright but transient. He arcs up into the body above him, needy and challenging, seeking something to abate the chasmal nothingness—

Frank presses his palm painfully against Matt’s dick, long fingers bruising as they move between his flesh and dryly circle his hole. Matt moves daringly toward the probing hand, mindless of when Frank removes the grip from his throat except for the sudden cool air that burns his throat and chest. He grins up at Frank, bloodlust singing through him and—

And it changes, _again_. Or didn’t really change in the first place. Frank’s anger recedes, body quietening, covering Matt’s skin with his own. He reaches and, with a graciousness that makes Matt’s eyes burn with shame, moves Matt’s hand away from Frank’s length. Matt doesn’t resist, stunned and confused and aching for something unsayable. Frank’s stroking his sides and his hips and his chest, all smooth and strong and reassuring and—

And Frank lays his hand against the side of Matt’s face. “It’s gonna be—” he huffs, strained and rueful. “I’ve… got you, Red.” 

Matt feels his eyes widening, feels his face go slack as he stares into the dark corners that approximates Frank’s face. Helplessly, he thinks _what is this bullshit?_

Frank’s thumb presses against his cheekbone, warm hand against his ear, fingertips burning impressions in his skull. 

And no one—no one’s touched him like this—a masculine hand against his face, comforting, _giving_ since— since—

 _Hands made of callouses, sewn together with blood and leather and sweat, strong and warm against his small cheek, holding Matt’s head up for him when it seemed too heavy. “I gotcha, Matty.”—_

—Yeah. Since that. 

It comes unbidden, that _de ja vu_ phantom pain and he’s not even aware he’s remembering his dad until he is and—it should be—it’s weird to think of him right now— _he’s naked in a bed with a man for Christ’s_ —

—and Matt’s a fucking adult, anyway, he’s an _animal_ of teeth and rage and definitely not something made of _soft skin_ and _silk sheets_ and he doesn’t _need_ a-a memory of—he doesn’t want— 

_They leave,_ he reminds himself savagely. If he could tattoo this into his skin or beat it into his bones he would. He’d write _they leave you_ over andoverandover until he ran out of room and then he’d write again over the top until it finally bled into him. _Because they_ should _leave you._ All those—all those touches leave empty spaces and dark corners and _you’re left with gaping wounds and it’s not like you deserve any of it in the first place. Not again,_ he vows to himself. _No more._

His chest is too tight to breathe and the hunger that was desire earlier is just emptiness now, distending and stretching him, hurting in a way he can’t begin to describe—hurting in a way he didn’t even feel until Frank _fucking_ Castle touched his face and—

“No, stop,” Matt snaps. He tries to push against the shoulders above him but his arms are heavy and his hands slip because can’t seem to separate Frank’s dark corners from his own. 

Frank runs his thumb up and down, brushes against his eyelashes, catching wetness there and smearing it over Matt’s cheek. 

“Red… _Matt_ …” There’s something utterly desolate in Frank’s voice, something Matt hasn’t heard since the graveyard. Frank kisses Matt’s cheek, breathes Matt in. 

“Please stop,” he whispers with tight lungs, through a jaw gritting down on pride. “Please—” he clamps his teeth shut, not sure what he’ll say, not sure if he’ll ever stop. 

Frank lets his face go, rolls to the side, and in his wake the world accelerates into Matt’s senses. The dark corners inside him just swallows it all, until Matt’s quaking with an emptiness he can’t comprehend. 

And then—and then there’s skin and callouses pulling at him until Frank and Matt are on their sides, facing each other (except Matt will never see anyone’s face ever again and he—sometimes he wonders if he could see their faces then maybe he wouldn’t keep forgetting how to—maybe he’d be _better_ , somehow. Maybe he’d understand. But that’s pointless and stupid and _soft_ ). 

They’re close, breathing each other’s air. Frank reaches out, draws Matt in so Frank presses chin and lips against Matt’s forehead, buries his face in his hair. 

“Frank,” Matt mouths, voice eking around his tight throat. He’s not sure what he wants to say. _I can’t, I swore that I wouldn’t do this again, no more, it’s my choice and they all leave, anyway, and this isn’t what I wanted—we should’ve stayed on the roof, we should’ve stayed away from each other._

Frank tightens his hold. He’s trembling, heart decelerating down from a cacophony of panic. Matt thinks about dark corners and how his were tangled up in Frank’s. 

That small, weak thing in Matt shifts, coils to run away. Matt can’t help but mirror it, can’t help but take a breath to tell Frank to leave, can’t help that his legs are already scrambling to carry him away from Frank’s touch. 

Frank holds on tight and, with a voice choking on things unseen, finally manages, “Please, Red.”

And there’s really nothing else to do. So Matt reaches out, wraps his arm around the skin of another, curls around him and offers his own body as a barrier. He shuts the world out for Frank because he can. He gives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full prompt from the kinkeme: Rooftop sex: it's kinda their thing, until it's not. They fall into Matt's bed, and sex goes from hard and rough to unexpectedly soft and meaningful, and Matt can't deal. He can't afford to care about anyone else. Not now, and especially not Frank. So he lashes out: biting, begging, pushing, scratching... until Frank finally manages to calm him down.
> 
> This part was more hurt than comfort, sorry. :)


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little more comfort this time.

Unbidden and unwanted, their simulacrum of violence gives way to softer things. 

Not everything gives way between them. There is still _morality_ and there is still _the mission_ and those are still, for the most part, mutually exclusive linchpins of their identities. 

And it is not at once or all of the time. They punch and claw and bite more than they don’t, pummeling against the indomitable shores of the other. But, sometimes, increasingly, there is no pain, there is no _taking_. They just kiss gently, touch reverently, and give away to the other what little they hoarded or collected of themselves over the previous days and weeks.

Softer things. Once, when Matt stopped to think about it, he wondered if the soft touches and the way Frank might occasionally hold him close somehow grounded him for a few days afterwards. Like Frank’s hands blended the sharp edges of Matt back into his surroundings so he didn’t feel like he walked apart from the world as an exposed nerve ending. 

But Matt generally tries not to stop and think about much. Hesitation leads to fear. He wouldn’t be Daredevil if he made a habit of hesitating. 

A week and a half after they—a week and a half after they stayed in Matt’s apartment the first time, Frank finds Matt on his way home from a quick patrol of the docks. He only has two guns on him and three knives. He’s carrying a bottle of whiskey and doesn’t seem inclined to offer an explanation. Matt lets him follow. 

Inside, shedding his armor is like shedding his real skin and putting on sweats and a t-shirt is just another farce he plays. He finds Frank on the couch with the whiskey open, two glasses out, and a gun disassembled and neatly compartmentalized. Matt has no fucking clue if he reads the situation correctly—Frank hasn’t even threatened to shoot him yet, so there’s no goddamned _paradigm_ to follow. But to hesitate is to fear. He throws himself on the couch with the same grim rush that makes him jump from rooftops, careful to connect hip-to-hip, knee-to-knee, shoulder-to-shoulder. It’s uncomfortably close and Frank has to adjust so he’s using his left hand predominantly to clean the gun. But he doesn’t say anything. 

They drink a lot. Matt’s never done that before. He doesn’t really drink much on his own because alcohol messes with his senses ( _“hey, do you get the spins?”_ ). He’s more of a sociable drinker and, really, _that_ started because Foggy—

Drinking for the purpose of getting drunk is new. The world starts to tilt soon enough, and there’s a point when taste becomes too acute and he starts imagining that his palate can pick up on dirt from hands, mildew from the casks, even copper from the still. Nausea creeps up, but then his taste sort of spins out with the rest of the room, slumps together with smell and hearing until it’s too confusing and he can ignore it again. 

The alcohol is one last barrier, a contrived excuse for this—whatever _this_ is. Because fists and bullets are their constituent elements, they’re more animals than men, meant to die bloody and live bloodier. They have singular, existential _purpose_. Soft don’t fit, impairs the prime functions of their being. Sacrifice upon sacrifice rides on the back of the names they made themselves into and to do anything besides their mission is a betrayal, a weakness, and makes them wonder: _what is the point of them?_

So they sip on whiskey excuses until Frank has to guide them to bed and Matt has to hold Frank up. They lose their shirts and wrap up in each other, locking ankles together, making themselves too heavy to be swept away. Matt’s fingers dance across Frank’s skin, trying to decipher a pattern. Frank holds on tight enough to bruise. 

It’s the start of something more than they expected, more than either of them wanted, and more than they can even name. They still get in each other’s way and they fight but it’s less and less like it was before—desire and dominance, teeth and claws. 

They drink a lot. 

They don’t talk.

Outside, Frank takes down a drug ring edging in from Chicago. Matt’s able to save most of them, especially Frank. There’s a man about to stab Frank in the back of the neck when Matt splinters silently from the shadows and lands a brutal and vindictive kick to the man’s temple. Frank doesn’t turn to Matt, doesn’t say thank you. 

Outside, when Matt’s reconnaissance of Midland Circle Financial turns into a hasty retreat from a small army of armed thugs and three members of the Hand. Frank appears at his back, keeps the thugs off of him while Matt deals with the ninjas. Matt loses his billy clubs but Frank tosses him a knife in the same motion he uses to kick an assailant in the chest. Matt catches it, throws it into the gut of the oncoming ninja, rolls, and comes up hard under the jaw of the thug aiming at Frank. 

Inside, the flow of alcohol stymies minutely each time they meet. Sometimes Frank ends up lying on the couch, sometimes with his head on Matt’s lap, fingers rolling the dial of a hand radio on the floor while Matt listens to case files or an audiobook and rests his hand on Frank’s chest. When Matt skims finger pads on the inside of Frank’s bicep he responds by refilling Matt’s empty glass. Frank sometimes catches Matt’s hand in his own and Matt will bend down in and align their lips. 

Inside, the morning after they fall asleep on the couch or entangled in silk sheets and each other, Frank usually stays. Sometimes he’ll sleep until noon, make the bed, fold their clothes, clean the glasses, and leave while Matt’s at work. Sometimes he gets up and cooks breakfast. When Matt walks into the kitchen those mornings, skin warm and damp from a shower, Frank usually holds out his hand expectantly from his place over the stove. Matt hands him the milk or the paprika or the salsa. 

They go entire encounters, hours and hours, without speaking. 

Softer things. Eventually, they do talk more, but they don’t actually _say_ much. 

“Shitty timing, Red,” Frank grumbles as Matt’s billy club bruises his wrist and wastes his last bullet. The pimp turns to run and Frank, irritated, throws his gun at the guy’s head and misses. 

A billy club takes the runner down, ricochets off the wall, and wobbles ponderously back to Matt’s hand. “Even shittier aim, Castle.” 

And they mean what they say even less.

“Brought Thai,” Matt says when he walks in his apartment another night and Frank is already there. It’s the first time—eating together will be new, if Frank stays. 

Matt senses Frank stiffen and then force himself to relax. “Not that place on the corner?”

“Of course that place on the corner.” 

“That place is shit, Red. The one on 43rd and 10th is better.” 

“If you like overpaying for beef-that’s- _definitely-not_ -beef saturated with MSG, sure.” 

“At least it _tastes_ like something authentic.” 

“…Frank, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you might be a psychopath.” 

Now, three weeks later, Matt cooks dinner (at 3 a.m.) as Frank sits on his counter, attempting to sew Kevlar into his jacket. 

“Night court is the armpit of humanity,” Matt decides out loud over the fish he’s frying. 

“Night court?” Frank asks incredulously, words slurring around the needle and thread in his mouth. 

“Night shift at the courthouse—I’m working as an A.D.A now. Lost a witness on a big case, got booted to night shift because the D.A. is an actual bag of dicks.” 

“Mm,” Frank responds because he’s usually unimpressed by hyperbole. 

“A literal armpit,” Matt continues, because Frank is also unimpressed with the ironic use of the word ‘literal’. On cue, Frank exhales sharply through his nose, annoyed. 

“You talkin’ ‘bout the lawyers or the cases?” He ties off the thread, shifts the jacket around, straightens to stretch his back, and hands Matt the serving plate when he holds his arm out for it. 

“…The lawyers,” Matt concludes after a serious internal debate, turning to serve the food. He eats while he stands and Frank doesn’t move his work off his lap but reaches down for the fork without lifting the plate, half the food falling back before it reaches his mouth. With Frank on the counter and Matt standing they’re almost too close to each other to manage eating and sewing, but they do. “Because the hazing is getting old. They were excited, maybe, to have me on board at first. But then I had to leave abruptly a few nights ago and shoved my case load on the next shift and I guess I sort of…” he shrugs. 

“Lost your appeal?” 

Matt’s own undignified snort surprises him. He smashes his face against Frank’s arm, muffling how helpless he is to stop the laughter once it starts. He can’t remember the last time he laughed. 

Frank buries his nose in Matt’s hair and laughs silently with him. Softer things. 

They hadn’t fucked—not really—since before the night they first ended up in Matt’s apartment. There’d been kisses, hot and deep. There’d been tongues and mouths on each other’s throats. Occasionally they’d rutted against each other, clothed, until they were sticky but warm and supple enough to chase sleep together. This was probably because they kept getting themselves too drunk to get it up. And also because of things unseen and unsayable, equal parts dark corners and softness that neither could bear. 

Tonight they bypass couch, whiskey, and clothes. Tonight Frank uses teeth again, but so lightly, so teasingly, Matt is a quaking mess, breaking out into a sweat and panting Frank’s name. Eventually, it winds to a raw, quiet close with Matt leaning back against Frank’s chest and Frank’s hand low on his belly. Frank angles in exquisitely slow, though Matt’s already open and wet from fingers and tongue and fingers again. Matt shivers, hardening again as Frank moves in him. 

“Jesus, Red,” Frank murmurs in disbelief and want, digging the heel of his hand in Matt’s lower belly, fingers reaching down to tease the length of him, mouth busy with the side of his neck. Matt presses his damp forehead into the sheets, moans quietly, reaches back to pull Frank in _closer still_ , mouth parted and swollen lips framing words unsayable. 

In the morning, Matt leisurely drifts into wakefulness. The smell of brewed coffee permeates the apartment and their clothes from last night are neatly folded on top of the dresser. He can feel the cold radiating from Frank’s feet from where he just settled back in from walking the cool floors. He can’t see Frank’s face, but knows Frank is looking at him, so he reaches out, runs his fingers lightly over sleepy features. Frank leans into his hand and Matt laughs breathlessly when Frank’s cold feet touches his, and hides a smile in Frank’s arm as the other valiantly struggles to tuck silk sheets back around them. 

Frank falls back to sleep first. Matt falls, too, giving way to softer things. 

end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original prompt here: http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/8773.html?thread=17694789#cmt17694789
> 
> Title taken from a snatch of phrase from the poem "The Art of Unselfing" by Sinclair.
> 
> No real idea how the DA's office works. I stole the ADA/night shift thing from the recent issues of Daredevil comics.


End file.
